Check out samples for free on Amazon.  It’s also free for next 89 days on Kindle Unlimited (and I get paid if you look at it through that channel).

Forthcoming:

How to Suck Your Own Dick: An Alive Juice Bar Guide to Men’s Health.

Grace, a smut novel about a stereotypical perfect Asian who will do anything to get into her dream school (Vanderbilt).

A collection of short stories, tentatively titled The Transformation of Ana Kasparian, also smutty.

And the third and final book of our “Good Fucking Manners” series, The Customer is Wrong.  It’s a guide to good service, and further explains why most Americans prefer bad service (polite bullshit to honest and efficient communication).

Here’s an excerpt from the cookbook:

Marie-Claude’s nose twitched as Pierre stumbled through the door, his gardener’s apron bulging suspiciously. “The comte’s chef was in one of his moods again,” he grinned, pulling out chunks of beef the noble household had deemed too tough for their delicate palates. “Threw out half the cow because it wasn’t tender enough for his precious bourguignon.”

“Idiots,” she snorted, already reaching for her biggest pot. “They don’t know that the tougher the meat, the better the flavor – if you know how to treat it right.” Like men, she thought, tough cuts just needed time and proper handling to become something magnificent.

The onions were already browning – she’d started them at dawn, knowing they’d need hours to transform from sharp and aggressive to sweet and sultry. French onion soup was poor people’s food, sure, but Marie-Claude had seen the comte himself ordering it at the tavern, probably thinking it was some exotic delicacy. If he knew it was just onions, stale bread, and time… but that was the peasant’s secret weapon: patience.

As she worked on the bourguignon, her eyes drifted to the chicken livers cooling on the windowsill – payment from the butcher’s wife for keeping quiet about certain indiscretions. Tomorrow they’d become pâté so smooth it could make a priest forget his vows. “The trick,” she muttered to her daughter Jeanne, who was watching intently, “is to soak them in milk first. Takes out the bitterness. Like marriage,” she winked.

The kitchen filled with the smell of wine and beef as she browned the meat her husband had rescued. Up at the manor, they’d have ruined this cut by trying to cook it quickly. But Marie-Claude knew better. By tomorrow, after hours of gentle simmering with wine, herbs from her garden, and those sweet, sweet onions, this “inferior” meat would be tender enough to cut with a spoon.

“Maman,” Jeanne piped up, “why do the rich people throw away the best parts?”

Marie-Claude laughed, deep and rich as the soup bubbling on her stove. “Because they never learned that the best things in life take time, ma petite. They want everything now, now, now. They’ve never had to seduce flavor out of unwilling ingredients…”

Marie-Claude tossed a splash of brandy into the liver pâté – her secret ingredient, stolen sip by precious sip from the comte’s cellars by Pierre during his pruning rounds. “The rich think flavor comes from expensive ingredients,” she told Jeanne, who was now up to her elbows in onions. “But flavor comes from love and time and knowing how to coax the best out of what you have.”

The bourguignon simmered slowly in the corner, already turning those tough chunks of meat into something magical. Every now and then she’d fish out a piece of bacon – another gift from the butcher’s wife, who was getting quite generous lately – and pop it into Jeanne’s waiting mouth.

“Watch the onions carefully,” she instructed, stirring the golden mass. “They’re like lovers – ignore them and they burn, hover too close and they never develop their character. Just check on them every now and then, give them a stir, add a splash of wine when they look thirsty.” She wiped her brow with her apron. “Your father tried to rush them once. Once! Now he knows better than to interfere with my onions.”

Speaking of Pierre, he’d fallen asleep in the corner, exhausted from his day of strategic theft and actual gardening. The comte’s rose gardens might be the talk of the province, but it was Pierre’s clever fingers that kept their family fed. Amazing what a gardener could squirrel away in his pockets – herbs, vegetables that were “too small” for the manor’s kitchen, even the occasional chicken that had “accidentally” wandered into his path.

“The revolution’s coming,” their neighbor had whispered at the market yesterday. Marie-Claude didn’t care much for politics, but she knew about hunger. And the hungry mob that passed through town last week had looked ready to eat more than just cake.

“That’s why we learn to cook like this,” she told Jeanne, pulling the perfectly browned liver from the pan. “Because when times get hard – and they always get hard, ma petite – knowing how to make something from nothing isn’t just clever, it’s survival.”

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows through their small kitchen. Soon the neighbors would start drifting in, drawn by the smell of Marie-Claude’s cooking. They always did. They’d bring what they could – a handful of mushrooms, some elderly carrots, a few eggs – and somehow, like Jesus with his loaves and fishes, Marie-Claude would make it stretch to feed them all.

“This is real magic,” she whispered to Jeanne, spooning a taste of the nearly-finished pâté onto a crust of bread. “Not the kind they teach at church, but the kind that keeps people alive. Now, taste this and tell me if it needs more thyme…”

Marie-Claude tossed a splash of brandy into the liver pâté – her secret ingredient, stolen sip by precious sip from the comte’s cellars by Pierre during his pruning rounds. “The rich think flavor comes from expensive ingredients,” she told Jeanne, who was now up to her elbows in onions. “But flavor comes from love and time and knowing how to coax the best out of what you have.”

The bourguignon simmered slowly in the corner, already turning those tough chunks of meat into something magical. Every now and then she’d fish out a piece of bacon – another gift from the butcher’s wife, who was getting quite generous lately – and pop it into Jeanne’s waiting mouth.

“Watch the onions carefully,” she instructed, stirring the golden mass. “They’re like lovers – ignore them and they burn, hover too close and they never develop their character. Just check on them every now and then, give them a stir, add a splash of wine when they look thirsty.” She wiped her brow with her apron. “Your father tried to rush them once. Once! Now he knows better than to interfere with my onions.”

Speaking of Pierre, he’d fallen asleep in the corner, exhausted from his day of strategic theft and actual gardening. The comte’s rose gardens might be the talk of the province, but it was Pierre’s clever fingers that kept their family fed. Amazing what a gardener could squirrel away in his pockets – herbs, vegetables that were “too small” for the manor’s kitchen, even the occasional chicken that had “accidentally” wandered into his path.

“The revolution’s coming,” their neighbor had whispered at the market yesterday. Marie-Claude didn’t care much for politics, but she knew about hunger. And the hungry mob that passed through town last week had looked ready to eat more than just cake.

“That’s why we learn to cook like this,” she told Jeanne, pulling the perfectly browned liver from the pan. “Because when times get hard – and they always get hard, ma petite – knowing how to make something from nothing isn’t just clever, it’s survival.”

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows through their small kitchen. Soon the neighbors would start drifting in, drawn by the smell of Marie-Claude’s cooking. They always did. They’d bring what they could – a handful of mushrooms, some elderly carrots, a few eggs – and somehow, like Jesus with his loaves and fishes, Marie-Claude would make it stretch to feed them all.

“This is real magic,” she whispered to Jeanne, spooning a taste of the nearly-finished pâté onto a crust of bread. “Not the kind they teach at church, but the kind that keeps people alive. Now, taste this and tell me if it needs more thyme…”

Jeanne’s face scrunched in concentration as she chewed, trying to mimic her mother’s discerning palate. “It needs… something,” she said finally, proud to be trusted with such an important judgment.

“Ha! Your daughter has the taste buds of a duchess,” Marie-Claude declared. “Pierre! PIERRE!” She kicked her snoring husband’s foot. “Wake up and get me more thyme from the garden before we lose the light.”

Pierre stumbled to his feet, still groggy. “The comte’s thyme or our thyme?”

“Ours, you fool. His has less flavor anyway – too pampered, like everything else up there. Get the wild thyme growing by the chicken coop. The ones that have to fight to survive always taste better.”

As Pierre shuffled out, cursing as he tripped over Josephine the pig who’d been napping in the doorway, Marie-Claude turned back to the stove. The kitchen had reached that perfect moment when everything was coming together – the bourguignon bubbling thickly, the onion soup turning deep golden, and now, with a bit more thyme, the pâté would be perfect.

When Pierre returned, leaves in his hair from wrestling with the herb patch, the sun was just setting. Marie-Claude worked the fresh thyme into the pâté with practiced hands, humming off-key as neighbors began drifting in, drawn by the smells wafting from their cottage.

The wooden table groaned under the weight of Marie-Claude’s alchemy as the family crowded around – Pierre, Jeanne, little Jean-Paul, Marie-Sophie, and Grand-mère in her usual corner spot. Their ancient cat Maurice wound between legs, while the chickens – who were supposed to be outside but always found their way in – pecked hopefully at fallen crumbs. Even the goat, Colette, had stuck her head through the window, her beard quivering at the smells.

“Get your filthy hands out of the pâté, Jean-Paul!” Marie-Claude swatted her youngest’s fingers with a wooden spoon, then immediately softened and cut him a thick slice of bread. “Here, spread it properly. Though God knows you’ll end up wearing half of it anyway.”

The bourguignon had transformed into a dark, rich stew that made them forget their manners as soon as they tasted it. Pierre demonstrated by tearing off a hunk of bread and sopping up the gravy, juice running down his chin. “To hell with the comte’s fancy sauce reductions,” he declared, belching contentedly. “My wife makes better food from their scraps than their chef does from prime cuts.”

“That thyme was worth waking up for,” he added, winking at his wife. “Though next time send someone younger to battle those chicken-guarded herbs. That old rooster of ours thinks he’s the king of France.”

“And he’s just as stupid,” Grand-mère cackled from her corner, reaching for more onion soup. She’d lost most of her teeth years ago, but Marie-Claude’s cooking was soft enough even for her gums. “Though I’d rather have our rooster in charge than those powder-wigged fools up at Versailles.”

The children giggled and played with their soup, turning it into a game of who could create the longest cheese string. Little Marie-Sophie won, naturally – she’d inherited her mother’s kitchen intuition and already knew the precise moment when cheese was at its most stretchy.

“Maman!” Jeanne suddenly shrieked. “The pig is trying to steal the pâté again!” Indeed, their sow Josephine had waddled in through the back door and was making a determined advance on the table. Pierre scooped her up like a baby, despite her being nearly full grown, and she squealed in indignant protest.

“Put that pig down before you drop her in the soup,” Marie-Claude laughed, watching Pierre struggle with the wriggling Josephine. “Though with these new taxes, we might have to eat her sooner than planned.”

“Mmmphf,” Pierre agreed through a mouthful of beef, juice dripping onto his shirt. He tore another chunk of bread and dragged it through the gravy, then licked each finger clean with loud, appreciative smacks. “The comte raised the rates again. Says the king needs more for his fountains or some such nonsense.”

Grand-mère let out a impressive belch, followed by an even more impressive fart. Nobody flinched – it was a sign of a good meal in their household. “Fountains!” she spat. “While we’re paying half our eggs in taxes. In my day…” She paused to slurp her soup directly from the bowl, cheese stretching from her chin to the table.

Jean-Paul, not to be outdone by his grandmother, attempted an even louder belch, earning a half-hearted “Mind your manners” from Marie-Claude, who was herself busy mopping up pâté with a heel of bread. The children had given up any pretense of civilization, faces and hands shiny with grease, competing to see who could fit the biggest chunk of beef in their mouth.

“At least we eat better than they do,” Marie-Sophie declared, gravy running down her chin. “Maman makes their throwaway meat taste better than their fancy cuts.” She demonstrated by stuffing an enormous piece of bourguignon in her mouth, cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s.

“That’s because your mother knows food needs love, not just money,” Pierre said, reaching across the table to steal a piece of meat from Jeanne’s bowl. She squealed and stabbed his hand with her spoon, but he was too quick. “Up at the manor, they don’t even know what to do with half the things they buy. Yesterday the chef threw out perfectly good beef bones because they weren’t ‘elegant’ enough for stock.”

“Their loss,” Marie-Claude snorted, watching with satisfaction as her family devoured every last morsel. Jean-Paul was now picking up the remaining gravy with his finger, while Marie-Sophie had resorted to licking her bowl.

A knock at the door interrupted Grand-mère’s tirade about taxes. The family froze, sharing worried glances – unexpected visitors at dinner could mean anything from desperate relatives to tax collectors. Josephine the pig took advantage of the distraction to make another grab for the pâté.

Marie-Claude wiped her greasy hands on her apron and opened the door cautiously. There stood a bewildered-looking foreigner in travel-stained clothes, gesturing apologetically at a broken carriage wheel visible in the darkening road beyond.

You find yourself stammering in awkward French, trying to explain your predicament, but the smell coming from inside the cottage makes you lose your train of thought completely. Something rich and wine-dark, something oniony and cheese-laden, something that makes your mouth flood instantly with want.

The woman in the doorway takes one look at your face and breaks into a knowing smile. “Américain?” she asks, recognizing your accent. Before you can finish explaining, you’re being pulled inside into a scene that feels like stepping into a Dutch master’s painting: golden lamplight, earthenware bowls steaming on a rough wooden table, and a family eating with unrestrained joy.

They shift to make room, shooing a startled chicken off a stool. A bowl appears in front of you, deep brown stew and crusty bread and something that smells like liver but more heavenly than any liver has a right to be. The man of the house – his shirt front stained with gravy – pushes more bread your way.

“Tell us about your revolution!” he demands eagerly. “We heard you threw all the tea in the ocean. Is it true you have no king?”

But you can barely answer – you’re too busy having a religious experience with the most transcendent beef stew you’ve ever tasted. Your carefully cultivated American manners dissolve as you tear into the bread, sopping up gravy with abandon. The old woman in the corner nods approvingly as you let out your first unconscious belch.

“The American knows how to eat!” she cackles, sliding something called pâté closer to you. “Maybe there’s hope for France yet!”

As you scoop up another spoonful of the onion soup, strings of cheese stretching to your lips, you realize you’re experiencing something more than just a meal. This is history – both your young country’s and France’s yet-to-come – shared over humble food made extraordinary by skill and necessity. In this moment, in this warm kitchen with these laughing peasants and their wandering livestock, you understand something profound about revolution, about survival, about the power of transforming scraps into feasts.

You reach for more bread, and the woman – Marie-Claude, you learn – smiles knowingly. She doesn’t need to speak English to recognize the universal language of someone discovering real food for the first time. Welcome, her eyes seem to say, to the peasant’s table.